Requiem
by I'm the map
Summary: His mistakes, his regret.


A/N: Inspired by _Anthem_ , courtesy of _Swiper. No swiping_

* * *

"Thing is, well… If ever you're feeling down, if ever you need someone to talk to. Well, uh. I'm here. We're all here."

Falco stares at the kid glancing up with all smiles and earnestness. Analyses the soft contracture of brows, the shy, sideways glance, ears downturned to mean openness, submissiveness, vulnerability. It takes all his self-control to suppress himself from delivering a fist to that muzzle.

"Listen, kid. Talking solves nothing. The only thing that ever counts is if ya go out there, and _act_." Wave of a wing and turn of the head away.

"Well…" Slight hesitance detected in the voice, which recomposes itself. "See. I view things differently. Talking things out _is_ a form of action. It's how we build a _team_ …"

Scoffs again.

"Yes… It's all about the team. If there's one thing my father taught me, it's to put _Star Fox_ first. Ourselves second. The only way to be strong together, and _defeat the enemy_ is if we stand _united._ And I want to make sure that all of my teammates are okay, Falco! That includes you. I want…

 _I want to make sure…_

 _I want to make sure you're on board with us._

 _I want to make sure that you feel like a_

 _REAL TEAMMATE_

 _on our_

 _REAL TEAM_

 _because_

 _this is what I want out of_

 _STAR FOX_

 _and_

 _my FATHER'S VALUES_

 _and_

 _if there is anything you need then DON'T HESITATE TO ASK because_

 _I know things are difficult and_

 _LIKE MY FATHER ALWAYS SAID…_

 _MY_

 _FATHER…_

Nauseating. Like a bitter taste in the beak.

Falco slams on the throttle. But acceleration does not come. Like a sitting duck, the Arwing floats forward in space. Uselessly.

"Fuck." Lamented to the carbon composite windshield of the canopy. Steps again on the boost, thrusting the Arwing forward momentarily before tipping control stick outward to avoid a small meteor whizzing by, "Fuck!"

Followed by, "Can this piece of junk fly any slower?"

Impatient. Always _so fucking impatient_ , as per Fox or _anyone else who's ever met him_. Furthermore, constantly _blaming_ circumstances that are external to oneself.

"'Cause it ain't my _fault_ , Fox, that I'm stuck to take up the slack of a certain _totally incompetent team member_ …"

He's now standing in the mess hall, triumphant. Eyes rolled in the direction of a certain toad curled in a ball at the foot of the dinner table. Then a glance back to the kid standing over his friend, positively shaking, eyes gleaming in anger. "Under a leader who's too much of a wimp to take _correctional disciplinary measures_ …"

A nauseating taste in the beak.

"Falco!"

Voice breaks through the static of the memory. Peppy's.

"How you holdin' up? Falco!"

Grunts to mean that message has been received.

"Slow down there, will you? We're heading over –"

To _back you up_ , because of course _you_ are only just _one_ pair of eyes one set of cannons two G-diffuser systems L and R but independent so if one is taken out then the other continues to function taking up slack for the other just as how you're used to rollin' on a nonstop solo across Lylat on jet fuel scraped together from unscrupulous sources,

"I'm just _fine._ Leave me _alone,_ "

as the dead space of Lylat spirals all around in 360 degrees, aileron roll effectively piercing through the enemy's blast, cheap Venomese plasma barely makes a dent so more efficient to incur damage upfront while _blowing the bastard up to shreds_ via lock-on counterstrike _gotcha fucker_ ,

"This not a favor, Fox,"

pushing through with a boost and command screen vibrates in red WARNING, damn engines always spend so long in cooldown,

"Damn it, Fox,

damn

you –"

And –

 _Too hard on others._

It's another one of his _issues_ , a critique that they keep pointing out, bringing to light. Like it's supposed to what, humiliate him or something.

"… _Falco?"_

Voice breaking through his idle veil of thoughts. It scares the jeepers out of him. Falco glances up from the couch, up and over the headrest. It's just that mild old hare from the original Star Fox, Peppy. Turns his glance back to the window, that peephole into the vast expanse of space in which they were floating.

Without a word, Peppy walks over and sits down beside him, on the dirty couch full of snack crumbs and unidentifiable stains that hadn't been changed since _who knew how many generations ago_.

He hears the old hare sigh, and the weight of another person causing the couch to sink towards the side opposite to his.

"I take it, ah. That it's been hard for you, to, ahm, adjust."

Falco looks down at the can of cola in his wing, half-empty.

"To, uh, our team dynamic," Peppy adds.

"And now, I know," Peppy continues. "That you have some reservations about one of our, eh, members. Slippy. Who, by the way, is our very best mechanic…"

And a fucking _bad_ pilot, he withholds himself from saying.

"And I know," Peppy continues, "That you're more experienced than him. That you're more experienced than _many_ of the members on our team."

Which made exactly two other members, out of four.

"But know," Peppy continues, "That Slippy is one of us, too. And as a team, _we must work together_."

Tilts back the can, gorges on a hit of black cherry cola. Nauseating. Needs something stronger, beer (on board, in limited quantities), or better yet, Fichinian vodka (not available until return flight to Corneria).

"And I know, Falco. That Fox hasn't flown half as many missions as you have."

Or even a quarter as many missions as he has.

"But know, Falco. That's no reason to dismiss him."

Peppy reaches over, taps Falco on the shoulder. The unwanted welcome takes him by surprise. He feels his entire body tense. Looks up, and meets, at last, the older pilot's eyes.

"Kid's been through a lot." Peppy's voice lowers into a soft hush. Gentle, something fatherly or grandfatherly – either or both. "Ever since we lost… ever since he lost his father."

War casualty. Goes with the hazards of the job.

"He's doing all he can. To walk in his father's footsteps."

Too cowardly to take his own, to forge his own path.

"And if – and if I've designated Fox as _our leader_ , as young or as inexperienced as he is, it's because I _trust_ him –"

 _And do you have any idea, Falco._

 _Just how hard this is._

 _On me._

 _Knowing, Falco._

 _Knowing that I'm the one. Who saw them do it._

 _Who let them take his father away._

 _Can you understand me, Falco?_

 _Please help me, Falco._

 _Help me help Fox._

 _Trust in him too, Falco._

 _Please…_

"FUCK!"

Hissed at the enemy. A second wave of Venomese fighters, clusters of them incoming, depicted on the radar as small flashing points. Bursting out forth from the planet's atmosphere, contact anticipated in T-300s. He'd have a few minutes to breathe, to maneuver his ship into position.

Not by much.

On the same display, three small, friendly dots. A large one, for the mothership, and two smaller ones, in close proximity, red and green. Peps and Slippy. Far.

Aeons and aeons away.

"What an idiot," he says this of Fox, out to in space, "what a brat,"

"What a pain in the ass,"

Spoiled brat who's never been hungry a day in his life, who grew up sheltered by a protective, supportive family, who entered the Academy with a full free ride on his daddy's name, tuition waived and scholarships in abundance,

Who knew what it was like at all,

To have had a family,

To not have spent a childhood scraping ends together with trash bin scrapings,

Cowering from a drunk mother, having never known his father,

Learning to be a parent before having ever had been parented himself, for siblings one who is now in jail the other two shot dead by street gangs,

To not have anyone,

To not need anyone,

Ever,

 _Because to_ rely on _is to get_ fucked up big time _…_

Fucked up big time.

" _No…"_

Slippy's eyes haunting Falco as he stares into them. An endless pit of despair.

"Like I said," Falco pushes the words out between clenched beak, "By the time we retreated from Fichina, we had already lost Fox's signal."

"But," Slippy continues, "But…"

"And Fox told us. That he was heading back. He told us that he was having trouble, and we decided to retreat. Except Peppy and I stayed to clear out those Venomese fighters, so they wouldn't be able to track us back to the Great Fox. He was supposed to be waiting here. For us. Back here."

"No," Slippy keeps repeating. "No way."

"Did you see a distress signal?"

"I don't know."

"Did you or did you not."

"I did! Maybe! Or maybe I didn't! I'm _just_ telling you, there _may or may not_ have been a distress signal coming from Fichina, I wasn't paying attention, and now it's _gone_ , if there was one it's _gone now_ , and I'm just saying –

 _I'm just saying that I don't know because I thought he was with you guys Falco_

 _Because you guys were the ones with him Falco and I can't believe that he's not with you guys because he's not here isn't he he's not here on the Great Fox he was with you guys and_

And tears are streaming down Slippy's face, those eyes puffy red and only growing redder, puffier, staring up at Falco, transfixed by desperation and despair, accusatory,

 _And I wasn't paying attention I was repairing my ship when the control room beeped it was the distress signal alert and I looked up and on the display there was a flash on Fichina,_

 _And he was with you guys Falco how the hell am I supposed to know where Fox is because he isn't here and if he isn't with you guys then where is he Falco,_

 _Where –_

 _Is –_

 _He –_

"Fifty-five per cent," reported out loud. Regarding the state of G-Diffusers. Checks the wings, integrity of left frame down to 63%, right frame doing significantly better at 81%.

Which was still a lot.

Which was enough.

Plenty for what he needed to do.

First, he'd have to clear out this swarm of _damn persistent fighters_. Easy, but a pain in the ass.

Then, he'd head to Fichina.

After that, though, he'd have to _actually find_ where the fuck Fox had ended up.

A pebble in a snowdrift. The needle in the haystack.

A pain in the ass.

I'm coming, Falco thinks, yes, you little brat, I'm coming and

you

better

be

damn

fucking

grateful

about

it.

" _I'm coming!"_

Slippy doesn't say this so much as wails it. "With you. To find Fox. Together."

"Slippy –"

"Fox needs us. He needs all of us. No – I need to do this, as part of my _debt_ to him, Falco. For everything he's done for me. He's saved me so many times. I need to do this, Falco, don't you see? _For Fox_."

"I - _we_ need you on the ship," Falco says. " _We_ need _you_ to be here _defending_ the mothership." Gesticulates with a fist punched into his palm. "If trouble starts brewing, we need someone to _alert_ us _immediately_."

"I know, I know. Better have ol' Slippy sittin' this one out. Just a waste of jet fuel if you have him fly. Better have him stay here, squatting like a sitting duck while everyone else risks their lives."

"You're wrong!" But Slippy isn't wrong, that's the trouble, it's why Falco can't bring himself to look at those large, glistening eyes, threatening at any moment to burst into deluge."Slippy, listen –"

"Because you don't need me. Because Fox doesn't need me. I _know_ already, Falco! I know!"

Wailed in that piercing falsetto. A little girl's voice, that's all Falco can think of, over and over. Stares down at the shape of Slippy's stomach, an awkward formless lump jutting out from above the belt on the flight suit. Pushes down memories of nights where he'd just gotten up to _fucking take a piss_ , only to find the lavatory lights turned on, horrific belching sounds of a throat forcefully ejecting stomach contents, lights on the kitchen similarly turned on, ravaged and upturned boxes spilling crumbs across the small tabletop –

"It's for _me_ , Falco. _Me_. I want to be there. I want to help Fox. I want to…"

"Ahem." The two glance up, exchange interrupted by a third voice. Peppy's, tired and old. Older and more tired than they've ever seen him. The hare limps over in slow motion, inch by agonizing inch. "Slippy, how close are you to completing your repairs?"

On the _third_ ship that he's trashed thus far, Falco thinks.

"A-about e-eighty five percent," the toad stammers. "C-completely replaced the left w-wing frame and ch-changed the e-engine. E-enough to fly..."

The old hare steps forward, places a hand on Slippy's shoulder. "One of my G-Diffusers got blown out pretty bad. How long would it take to swap it?"

The crying toad looks up, blinking. "T-twenty minutes. F-fifteen if I try to go fast…"

"Good," Peppy says. "Very good."

"First," Peppy says, "You will help me swap that G-diffuser."

"Then," Peppy says, "You will do the same for Falco's."

Falco draws in a sharp breath, but Peppy doesn't pay him any heed. The old hare has by now stooped over, both hands placed on the toad's shoulders.

"We need you," Peppy says.

"Do not forget that fact, Slippy."

 _We_

 _need_

 _you…_

Breathe. In. Out. Slowly. Nerves calming. Fist around the controls, steadying.

Screen flashing numbers. Left wing frame down to 51%, and the right, 72%. G-diffusers down to 31%.

 _He shoulda gotten that G-diffuser swapped._

But then again, he chouldn't have. There was simply no time. On a rescue mission time is survival, ain't that the first thing you learn on those, ah, cutesy little Academy textbooks?

But was it just his imagination,

Looking out the clear windshield, into the expanses of space

Eyes fixed on the atmosphere of the ice planet, Fichina,

That the temperature in his ship was

 _D_

 _R_

 _O_

 _P_

 _P_

 _I_

 _N_

 _G –_

"You scared the _jeepers_ outta me, Falco!"

Kid averts Falco's gaze, head turned down and to the side, a sheepish hand lifted to rub the back of his own head. Nervous tic.

"What? Being on a spaceship ain't an excuse to allow yourself get outta shape."

"With the maintenance material? That's just nuts! Slippy'd go crazy if he knew what you were doing with his equipment!"

Falco grins, and continues to deadlift with his makeshift weight, two hollow ballasts affixed to a rod.

"So, uh…"

Falco expects the kid to just go away, _leave him alone_. But the kid doesn't. Just leans over against the wall, staring at his feet. Tip of the tail sweeping from left to right.

"I wanted to know…"

"What?" Falco sets down the weights. Irate. Or amused. Or both.

"How you do it. All those shot-downs. You've got the best record on the team… Like a _machine,_ Falco. You're really, _really_ good."

"Easy peasy," he laughs. Arches his head back, stretches a wing behind his shoulder blades. "The Venomese can't fly for their lives."

The kid's eyes go wide for a second. Visual fields making contact. Then, the eyes narrow, becoming serious.

"Show me how you do it," kid whispers. "Please?"

"I wanna learn," kid continues. "To fly. Like you, Falco. The Lombardi way."

Kid looks up again. In those eyes, something bright, something earnest, something that makes Falco uncomfortable because he's _just so not used to it_.

"Falco, I… I'm just so glad you're on my team. Y-you know, every time I go out there and fly, I just think to myself how lucky I am. To have you. On our team. Peppy always tells me, learn from that Falco guy. S-Slip' too, he looks up to you. A lot, though he'll never say it to your face. I admire you, Falco. We all do. And my father… if my father were here, he'd… He'd have lots of good things to say about you, too. I'm sure of it…

 _You know, when I'm out there, flying? Next to you, and Peppy, and Slip. It just makes me feel… safe, I guess. Uh… confident – that's what I mean. Like, confidence that we're gonna win this war. So, uhm. I guess. All I wanted to say is,_

 _T_

 _H_

 _A_

 _N_

 _K_

 _Y_

 _O_

 _U._

Layover at Macbeth. It's welcome relief to hop out of the Arwing, and breathe in the open air. Even if said air has been sullied by decades of coal and rare mineral mining. Falco tears off his bandanna, transforming it into a makeshift rag for his forehead. It'd sure been getting stuffy in there. A group of Cornerian mine workers were supposed to greet them, with the whole team having been promised free food, warm beds and unlimited ship repairs. A small favor to pay, really, for the contribution they'd soon be making to the anti-Venomese resistance.

Katt's ship soon zooms past, and comes to a stop a few hundred meters in front of him. G-diffusers blowing a cloud of mineral dust into the air. The other two flyers, Bowsor and Mouser, were still nowhere in sight. Always taking their damn lazy time.

He's got his head tilted back, leaning left to right, stretching neck and shoulder when he spots Katt. A miniature figure in the distance, growing larger and larger.

"Falco!"

His name yelled out between angry pants. A cat's claw raised, and pointed at him.

Accusatory.

"What do the Hot Rodders _mean_ to you, Falco?"

A shrug. Crosses his wings out in front of him. Their eyes lock. His defiant, hers searching.

She moves closer and closer until their faces are almost touching, until he can almost feel the heat rolling off her body, it's what she does when she's about to ask for sex, but it's a different context, and now he's getting uncomfortable.

And Katt laughs. Laughs in a way that he's never heard anyone laugh before.

"You might be the best fucking pilot on this fucking team. But you know what? You're a jackass. The biggest fucking jackass that I've ever met."

 _And that's why…_

 _Today…_

 _I_

 _Q_

 _U_

 _I_

 _T –_

"Damnitdamnitdamnitdamni–"

Something was wrong with the boost. Scratch that – something was _definitively_ wrong with the boost. Damn plasma cannon too, taking ages to recharge. Through the clear polymethacrylate screen, Fichina, the ice planet, gleamed. Inert and sterile, enormous. So close, yet so far away.

Another thud, coursing throughout the cockpit. Integrity of the wing frames having dropped to 32% and 54%.

G-diffusers down to 19%.

Enemy fighters coming up, spawning at what seemed like hundreds or millions all around him. An ambush. It's what they'd been setting him up for. They'd been waiting, they'd been patient all this time, and now they'd lured him right where they wanted him. A trap, that he'd fallen into headlong.

Blast tearing through the Arwing, clipping off the entirety of the left wing..

17%.

Felt from inside as an impact, rippling throughout the cockpit.

15%, 13%, 9%.

"G-DIFFUSERS, CRITICAL," repeated by the automated warning system in a tinny, robotic voice.

7%.

Peripheral vision happens to notice, on the radar, two blinking dots headed his way. Red and green. Friendly. Contact estimated in T-1200s. Closer than where they'd been, earlier.

Still aeons and aeons away.

"CRITICAL," the ship repeats to him, "G-DIFFUSERS."

Claws at the command stick. From the ship, no response.

4%, 3%.

Lights bending, above and all around him.

Enemy cannons.

Or maybe, stars.

1%.

"Hey."

Said silently, in his mind.

Almost there, Fox.

Hang in there, Fox.

Sure. You're one of the biggest pains in the ass I've ever met, but.

I've been thinking it over. And, well… Since it really looks like ya mean it…

I'll teach ya how to fly. The Lombardi way.

Except, it's not something I can just _talk_ about.

It's something I'll have to _show_ you.

We can find some time or something. And practice, or stuff.

Get ya on par with what they don't teach in the Academy, or even anywhere.

But before we get on with it, there's one thing I gotta say.

See that sky above ya?

With all the stars?

And the planets?

And the space?

It's mine,

And a friend of mine's,

And Slippy's,

And Peppy's,

And you father's,

And yours, Fox.

'Cause we're a team.

We're all in this together.

Now get your shit together, 'cause we're gonna make you fly.


End file.
